I take off my bracelets
sixty tiny memories hitting the floor like rain.
Three days later,
I put them back on,
as if the weight of them
could hold me steady,
as if metal could teach me permanence.

I cut my hair.
Let the extensions go.
Locks resting soft, just under my neck.
But then I see someone with hair down to her waist,
and my hands itch
to reach back,
to rewind,
to be long again.

Why can’t something ever be… enough?

Some days, I only love myself
when I am clean,
when my clothes fall just right,
when the mirror decides to be kind.
And some days,
I only love people
when they look like the aesthetic
my circle won’t laugh at.
Ashamed of a heart
because its skin,
its shoes,
its vibe
isn’t “Pinterest-perfect.”

How can we think like this
and still call it love?

But I’m learning
Freedom is not in the bracelets.
Not in the hair.
Not in the mirror,
the clothes,
or the crowd’s approval.

Freedom is when I let myself be.
Freedom is when I let you be.
Freedom is the moment I stop chasing “right,”
and start living “real.”

Because enough…
enough was never out there.
Enough has always been in here.

I wish I didn’t have to reinvent myself
just to be seen.
That the world wasn’t so harsh,
so cruel,
that people carried their own insecurities
instead of setting them down
on my shoulders.

I wish my African parents had taught me:
you are enough.
That anyone who says otherwise
isn’t telling truth,
just sharing taste.

I wish I could hold negativity in my hands
without reshaping myself around it,
without carving away at who I am.

I wish we looked at the world differently
saw the beauty in our separate ways of seeing,
the miracle of arriving at different truths
about the same sky.

I wish we saw life as art,
and every person as the artist of their own canvas,
without ranking whose colors are better,
whose brushstrokes are worth more.

I wish…
but maybe wishing is just another way
of saying I already know
what could be.

They asked me what love was, how my generation sees it, feels it, lives it.
And honestly? I’m just out here observing, listening, watching people trip over expectations,
Expecting their partners to see them,  really see them, without judgment,
But then turning around and expecting those same people to think exactly like them.
Like, can I love you without agreeing with you?
Can I hold space for your truth, even when it’s not mine?
But nah, we try to fix each other, mold each other into the versions we dreamed up in our heads,
And when the mold cracks, we say,
“That wasn’t love.”

But I wonder,  what if love wasn’t supposed to be a project?
What if the first person who ever loved didn’t come with a checklist?
Didn’t try to download their expectations into someone else’s heart?

Picture this:
Before words like love even existed,
Before poems and movies and Instagram captions and stories,
Two people just surviving, walking side by side in a wild, uncharted world.

They notice the little things, the warmth of a smile,
The quiet sound of breathing in the dark,
The way hands fit without needing to squeeze.

No changing, no editing, no trying to upgrade
Just two souls choosing to stay alive together.
No filters, no proofs, no “are you still worth it?” tests,
Just presence.

Fast forward to now
Love’s turned into a construction site,
BluePrints in one hand, expectations in the other.
We come in thinking we can build the perfect partner,
Then call it quits when the walls don’t stand tall enough.

Original love? It was raw survival.
Our love? A brand we polish and test and weigh.
We crave safe love, but forget how to be the safe place.
We want to be seen, but forget to truly see the other.

So here’s my truth
Love isn’t about changing you or agreeing with you.
It’s about holding space when the world gets loud.
It’s about choosing you as you are,
Not as I want you to be.

Maybe if we strip away all the noise,
All the expectations passed down like heirlooms,
We’d find love again, the messy, imperfect, beautiful kind
The kind that just is.